Last Chance for Glory (2 page)

But, then again, Tommy Brannigan, son of a son of a son of a cop, has seen the NYPD as the Land of Opportunity right from the beginning. Take what you can, always make the man happy (the man being whoever sits above you on the ladder), and keep your business to yourself. In this case, Tommy Brannigan’s business is getting his dumb ass transferred out of Homicide. That’s because there’s no money in Homicide. While ordinary men close their eyes and see aroused starlets in the act of disrobing, Brannigan dreams of Narcotics or Vice, of stumbling onto fistfuls of dead presidents hidden beneath threadbare mattresses.

So, what Tommy Brannigan actually does is grunt and continue to stare out the window. Remembering that not only does Bela Kosinski outrank him, Bela Kosinski is the ultimate burnout hairbag, a dedicated drunk who cannot be insulted or threatened, only contained until such time as Tommy Brannigan can locate a new partner.

Ten minutes later, a battered Chevy sedan pulls into the lot and stops next to Brannigan’s window. The bald, middle-aged man sitting behind the wheel flashes a captain’s shield, then states his name.

“Grogan, Aloysius.”

Brannigan notes the black man sitting next to the captain. The tattered watch cap perched on the man’s head is beginning to unravel. Strings of wool hang over his small ears.

“You got our attention, Captain. What’s up?”

“Get in the back. We’re gonna make this short and sweet.”

The partners do as they’re told. Ducking out into the cold, trying to get a look at the black man’s face as they climb into the backseat and close the doors.

“Awright,” Grogan begins, “this here is Mack. Mack’s here to give you information. He will not be a witness. He will not testify. He will not be available to you after tonight. He is my snitch and we are working on a major case. Understand?”

“Yeah, sure.” Kosinski’s voice holds equal measures of boredom and contempt.

“I’m handing you the ball. It’s up to you to run with it. If this wasn’t a homicide, we wouldn’t be talking at all. Understand?”

Brannigan speaks up quickly. “Understood, Captain. And don’t think we don’t appreciate what you’re doing. This case was going nowhere in a hurry.” That, Brannigan knows, isn’t entirely true. While they aren’t about to arrest Sondra Tillson’s killer, the case is moving right along with most of his and Kosinski’s attention focused on the husband, Johan. Though Johan Tillson’s alibi is ironclad, he’s been less than honest about his wife and her day-to-day activities. Brannigan is convinced that a boyfriend lurks somewhere in the darkness.

“Good, now we’re clear. Mack, tell ’em what you told me.”

Mack keeps the back of his head to the two detectives as he speaks. He’s dressed in a ragged wool jacket that matches his watch cap nicely. Brannigan can smell him from the backseat.

“See, here, like what ah’m sayin’ is what Billy Sowell actually
tole
me. Ah didn’ hear it from nobody else. It come out his own mouth. We was drinkin’ by the river like we usually does. Thunderbird out the bottle. Talkin’ ’bout nothin’ and evvythin’. That’s also how we usually does. I was going on ’bout this friend we had who got found in the river. Sayin’ how I figgered the boy was kilt and tossed in the water. Then Billy say how he kilt this bitch over by Gramercy Park. That’s the park got the locked gates on it. I say, ‘Man, you bullshittin’ me,’ but he say, ‘No man, I done it. I kilt the bitch. She wouldn’ let me fuck her, so I kilt her.’ I still say how I don’t believe it, so Billy show me this long knife. Man, it was about a big mother-fucker. Look like a gottdamn sword. He say, ‘I kilt her with this here knife and now I got to be rid of it.’”

Brannigan looks over to find his partner staring out the window. “Billy Sowell have an address?”

“He live by the river, ’round Twenty-third Street on the East Side. In a box.”

“A box?”

“We homeless, officer.”

“Did he tell you anything else.”

“Nawssir. See, at the time I jus’ figger it was the booze talkin’. Billy ain’ fas’ or nothin’—like, the boy’s retarded, really—so, I didn’ think much of it till I asks around and hears ’bout this bitch what got kilt near Gramercy Park. Stabbed to death, jus’ like Billy tole me. So then I figger maybe he really done it and I tells the officer.”

Back in his own car, Brannigan starts the engine and turns on the heater while his partner fumbles with a small flask.

“What it is,” Kosinski announces, “is nothin’.
Nada.
As in, nada fuckin’ thing.”

Brannigan feels his blood start to rise. “You don’t wanna check this out?”

“No, Tommy, I don’t wanna check out what some drunken derelict who smells like he slept in his own piss says about another drunk. Major case? The Captain says the derelict and him are workin’ a major case? That’s bullshit, Tommy. For that bum, major means some bleeding-heart citizen tossin’ him fifty cents instead of a dime.”

“We have a witness, Bela. Why don’t we run Billy Sowell’s photo by her?”

“Why? How ’bout ’cause Melody Mitchell can’t identify the perp? That’s if she ever got a good look at him, which I doubt. How ’bout ’cause Melody Mitchell said the perp was wearin’ an expensive overcoat? Which don’t exactly make him homeless. How ’bout ’cause puttin’ this Billy Sowell at the scene don’t make him the perp. How ’bout ’cause I got six days off and I’m plannin’ to enjoy every minute? You wanna play detective on your own, be my guest.”

December 11: 10:15
AM

Billy Sowell, emerging from his packing-crate home, sees the tall cop and smiles. Just like he always does when he’s confused or threatened, which is really the same thing to him.

“Hi, Billy.”

The tall cop squats down. He is smiling, too.

“Hi.”

“How ya doin’?”

“I’m doin’ okay.”

“My name is Detective Brannigan. Do you wanna see my badge?”

“No. I believe you.”

“I need to talk to you, Billy. About something that happened two weeks ago.”

“A few weeks?” That’s bad. Billy has problems remembering. He wants to make the cop happy so the cop will go away, but now he doesn’t think he can do it. “I can’t remember two weeks.”

“No, Billy, this is something very important. This is something you can remember.”

Billy shuts his eyes, attempts to remember two weeks ago. He sees a blur, a smudge. When he tries to concentrate, the smudge begins to spin.

“Billy? Open your eyes, Billy.” The cop waits until Billy smiles, before continuing. “This is about a woman who was murdered near Gramercy Park? Do you know where that is?”

Billy nods.

“Someone told me that you killed the woman, Billy. He told me that you stabbed her with a knife. That would be very serious. Did you kill that woman, Billy?”

Billy shakes his head. The smile fades. He’s not good at this, at explaining things.

“I wouldn’t do anything like that,” he finally says.

“I believe you, Billy, but when someone makes an accusation, I have to check it out. That’s my job. But it won’t take long. I promise. We’ll just go down to my office and straighten it out. I’ve got coffee and sandwiches there. We can have lunch. Do you wanna go with me?”

Billy doesn’t know what “accusation” means, but he’s been on the street long enough to know that cops mean trouble. And that going someplace with a cop means
bad
trouble.

“I wanna stay here,” he says. The smile is now frozen to his face. His lips feel numb.

“Don’t you want to clear this up?”

The cop seems unhappy, which Billy doesn’t understand. But the cop’s not mad, which is good.

“Sure I’d like to,” Billy says, “but I didn’t do it.”

“That’s the whole point, Billy. If we can just clear it up, you won’t be a suspect any more. But you have to tell me what you were doing when the murder happened.”

“Two weeks ago?”

“That’s right. On November twenty-seventh.”

“What if I can’t remember?”

“Don’t worry, Billy. I’ll
help
you remember. Between the two of us, we can work it out.”

1:35
PM

“Jesus, Billy, you’re not doin’ too well. You don’t seem to remember a damn thing.”

“But I’m trying, Detective Brannigan. I’m trying as hard as I can.”

“You drink a lot don’t you, Billy? An awful lot. You drink a lot of booze.”

Billy hangs his head, nods yes.

“Do you drink every day?”

Another nod.

“You know what that means, Billy? It means we can’t establish an alibi for you.”

Billy Sowell looks up. “What’s an alibi?”

“It means we can’t prove you were somewhere else when the murder was committed. By the way, did you know Sondra Tillson?”

“No.”

“Are you sure, Billy? She was the lady who got murdered.”

“I don’t know any ladies except for Batbrain Mary and Lisa MacCready. They live down by the bridge. The Williamsburg Bridge.”

“I believe you, Billy, but we’re going to have to prove that.”

Billy, perched on a stool in an otherwise empty room, a room with barred windows, watches Brannigan pace back and forth, back and forth. Billy wishes he’d never come to the station house with Detective Brannigan. He hasn’t had the sandwiches Detective Brannigan promised. He hasn’t even had a glass of water.

“I got it.” Detective Brannigan stops pacing. He holds one finger in the air, a huge smile lighting his face. “We could check the evidence. All we need is a little bit of your hair and some of the hairs from your overcoat. And we need to take your picture to show to a witness. And we need a little bit of your blood, too.”

“My blood?”

“A little.”

“With a needle?”

“It won’t hurt, Billy. Just a teeny pinch.”

“I don’t want a needle, Detective Brannigan. Can’t we find some other way to prove I wasn’t there? I’m getting very tired.”

“You know, Billy, you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. You can leave. But I think you should try to clear this up before it goes any further. I mean,
if
you didn’t do it.”

“But I didn’t do it. You said you believed me.”

“I do believe you, Billy. I believe you because you’re helping me do my job. But if you go home before we can prove that you’re innocent, I might have to think something else.”

7:20
PM

Tommy Brannigan rubs his weary eyes. He is sitting at his desk in the detectives’ squad room, trying to ignore the chaos around him while he works on the photo array spread across the desk. The problem is that he can’t make Billy Sowell’s Polaroid photos look anything like the eight mug shots surrounding them. For one thing, the Polaroid film stock is a good deal thicker than the mug shots and he has no effective way to flatten it. For another, the mug shots were printed on a single sheet of paper, full-on and profile. Billy’s two Polaroids, even cut down to the size of the others, stand out like a sore thumb. That alone will keep it out of court, even if Melody Mitchell can make a positive ID, which she probably can’t, not without some help.

But how
much
help? That’s the real question. Tommy Brannigan isn’t a lawyer, but he’s been in the system long enough to know that some judges are much more likely to throw out evidence than others. He also knows that some judges admit virtually anything, because they figure that while the average voter cannot define the word appeal, he or she knows all about technicalities. Especially if the perp goes right back out and does it again.

“Hey, Lieutenant.” Brannigan tugs at a passing sleeve. “You got a minute to look at this? I don’t wanna screw it up.”

Lieutenant Corelli turns on his heel with the grace of a ferret. “Whatta you want, Brannigan? I’m busy.”

“I have a suspect in the Tillson case. And a witness. What I wanna do is work up a good sheet, but I don’t think we can get this in.”

Corelli glances at the photo array. “This the suspect?” He points a long, bony finger at a smiling Billy Sowell.

“That’s him.”

“The profile shot’s fucked up, Tommy. You got the perp facing the camera with only his head to the side. You were supposed to have him turn his shoulder into the camera. The array’s biased.”

“You think it’s hopeless?” Brannigan’s usually smiling mouth drops into a disappointed frown. “See, I’m working with the mutt’s cooperation.”

“You read him his rights?”

“He’s not a suspect, yet. I got him to sign a release for the photos, some hair, some blood, and a few fibers from his coat, but he can walk out the door any time he wants to.”

“So, why’s he stayin’ around? This is a homicide we’re talkin’ about.”

“He’s slow. Retarded. I mean he can talk and write his name, but the kid’s definitely retarded. Plus, he drinks every day and that adds to it. I told him I was gonna try to clear him—which I am, in a way—and he bought it. At least, for
now
he bought it.”

Tommy Brannigan, smiling again, watches Lieutenant Corelli study the photos. Involving the whip helps in two ways. Not only will it result in a photo lineup more likely to be admitted into evidence, it commits Corelli to the case. Without Corelli’s approval, Brannigan has no way to get to the prosecutors. And there’s no guarantee that Corelli will go ahead with a flawed case. Department policy is to not further burden already overwhelmed Assistant DAs with bullshit.

“Did the witness mention an overcoat when she gave her description?”

“Yeah.”

“Your suspect’s the only one wearing an overcoat. The rest of them are wearing jackets. That’s a little obvious, Tommy. In fact, that’s a
lot
obvious. Did the witness happen to mention a scar on the perp’s left cheek?”

“No, Lou. No scar.”

Corelli looks up in surprise. “Your suspect has a scar. How are you gonna get an ID with that?”

“It’s not my fault, Lou. That’s just the way it came up. Look, all I wanna do is take it one more step. I wanna get the witness to look at the perp’s photo. See what she says and go on from there.”

Corelli shakes his head. “I’m probably crazy, but here’s what I want you to do. First, get a felt pen and put a scar on every photo. Under the eye, like the perp’s scar. Then glue the photos to a piece of poster board—flatten ’em real good—and photocopy the whole thing. That’ll take care of the problem with the film. Remember, no matter what, don’t let the witness see the original. If she can’t make an ID off the copy, you let the suspect go. Maybe you’ll get lucky in the lab.”